


of love and beauty (and other irritating problems)

by boomerangst (SevereChill)



Category: InuYasha - A Feudal Fairy Tale
Genre: Alternate Universe - A Song of Ice and Fire Fusion, Alternate Universe - Game of Thrones Fusion, F/M, Friends With Benefits To Lovers, Slow Burn, lighter and fluffier than a GoT AU has any right to be, seriously there are Bollywood tropes here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2018-12-26 23:49:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12069483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SevereChill/pseuds/boomerangst
Summary: When Lady Sango's father sends her away to Dorne, he's only trying to protect her honor. It almost works until she crosses paths with a disreputable ex-priest from across the sea.





	1. a tourney at king's landing

**Author's Note:**

> For Angie! Let this serve as evidence that I can absolutely be flattered into writing things for you if you feed my ego even a tiny bit

 

The tourney was a problem.

The irony of it stung. Sango loved tourneys. When she was small, she had begged Septa Kaede for stories of them—who lost, who won, and most importantly, _how_ they won. She’d never paid much attention to who got crowned Queen of Love and Beauty, always imagining herself instead in the position of the valiant knights. It wasn’t so far-fetched, for a daughter of House Taijiya. Two of Sango’s great aunts had been knighted, and their house’s ancient founder, Midoriko, had been a female warrior of no small renown. Sango’s father had been quick to acquiesce when she’d voiced her own desire to begin training.

That was before he’d brought them to King’s Landing, before he’d been appointed Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. It was unorthodox, for a Lord Commander to have a family, but not unheard of. It had always been King Takeda’s custom to flout tradition and do as he pleased. If he saw fit to appoint Lord Taijiya to his small council, none would question him, beloved as he was by nobility and smallfolk alike.

But even King Takeda had his limits, and if the tourney to celebrate his son’s eighteenth nameday went as it was likely to go…well. That would be a problem. 

“What has the prince said to you?” asked her father one evening when the tourney was still a few weeks away. He had dismissed Kohaku and the servants. The room felt strangely large.

“Nothing,” said Sango, resisting the urge to squirm under his gaze. “Only…only that he hopes I will attend.”

The candles cast wavering shadows over her father’s long face.

“You have nothing to fear, Sango. I only ask that you speak the truth.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Who do you think will win the tourney?”

“Prince Kuranousuke,” said Sango quietly. Everyone knew that. The heir to the Iron Throne was known for his great prowess in the field, his ability to unseat men twice his size and age with a single well-placed lance. Sango herself had watched him practice many times, admiring and envious as he struck down every opponent. She had no doubt that he would win.

“And who do you think he will crown as his Queen of Love and Beauty?”

Sango would have liked to make some vague and equivocal answer, but she could hardly lie to her father after he had specifically requested the truth. Even if it was a truth that she had not yet acknowledged to herself.

“Me.” Her voice sounded very small and far away. She could not rid herself of the awful, curdling feeling that she had done something wrong.

Her father sighed. Sango couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes, so she focused instead on the lacework of faint scars on his knuckles and braced herself, waiting for a rebuke she wasn’t certain she deserved.

It didn’t come. “I’m sorry,” he said instead.

Sango’s head snapped up. “Father?”

“I’ve been so occupied with the task of protecting the king and the realm that I have neglected to protect my own child.”

Sango shook her head. What was he saying? Protect her from _what_? “You haven’t,” she insisted.

He took a slow, sad breath. “You have a good heart, Sango. You have never given me cause for worry. You have always behaved sensibly and with honor.”

“Thank you,” said Sango softly. It was just the sort of praise she always longed to hear from him, so why didn’t it _feel_ like praise at all?

“But in my pride, in my blind indulgence of you, I failed to realize that I am not the only one who notices those qualities. I failed to realize that you are not only my daughter, but a young lady in your own right—and a comely one at that. I apologize for all the ways in which I have failed you, Sango.”

Sango had a sinking feeling that she knew where the conversation was headed.

“You must know that the prince’s attachment to you can only lead to dishonor for both our houses,” continued her father.

“Yes,” said Sango past the lump in her throat. House Taijiya was old and well-respected, but not a Great House—not the sort of family that married royalty. King Takeda had already caused enough of a stir by naming her father Lord Commander—how would it look if his son announced his brazen intention to court Sango, jilting all the more suitable young ladies from greater houses in the process?

“With that in mind, I have decided that the safest course of action is to send you away.”

“Away?” Sango’s heart hammered in her ears. She had expected a scolding, or perhaps to be banned from attending the tourney. She had already half-formed a plan to go to Prince Kuranousuke and tell him, politely but firmly, that they were not for each other and he must under no circumstances crown her his Queen of Love and Beauty when he won. But to be sent away? She hadn’t looked for it. 

“Wh…where am I to go? Will you send me back to Demonsbane?”

Demonsbane, the Taijiya family seat, was only a day’s ride from the capital. To be sent away would not be so terrible if she could still see her father and Kohaku sometimes.

But her father shook his head. “No, daughter. The Martells have agreed to foster you in Dorne. You shall go to Sunspear.”

 _Sunspear?_ “So far?”

“I am certain you will find Sunspear to your liking. It is a great honor for House Taijiya. I expect you to behave with the dignity befitting your birth,” he said, and Sango knew the subject was closed.

 

* * *

  

The moon was somehow brighter in Dorne. It had never shone so white above King’s Landing or Demonsbane. Viewed from Sunspear it seemed almost to flash, drawing Sango’s eye like a fire opal, refusing to be ignored. On her third night, she climbed to the top of the innermost Winding Wall to look at it. It was not yet full, but waxing, and shone with an almost painful brilliance. She gazed up, feeling more acutely than ever the stinging confusion that had followed her from the capital. She wasn’t certain what she wanted from the moon. It couldn’t help her. What was the purpose in lingering?

She moved to slip away and nearly jumped—a dark figure loomed on the battlements, only a stone’s throw away. As her eyes recovered from the brightness of the moon, she was able to make out a man—tall, young, and unfamiliar. It was difficult to discern his features in the shadow of the wall, but she felt certain he was not one of the endless parade of sers and lords she’d been introduced to since arriving at Sunspear. He was looking at her, she thought. It made her feel as though she had done something wrong. Then he nodded, the movement barely perceptible. Sango forced herself to return the gesture before she hastened away, heart pounding like a spooked deer’s. When she reached the bottom of the steps she looked back. There was no sign of the stranger, but the brilliant moon lingered, gleaming at the edges of her vision on the dark way back to her small, breezy chamber in the Tower of the Sun.

 

* * *

 

Sango’s dresses were unsuitable for the Dornish climate, or so she was informed by some of the young ladies slightly older than herself. Their group was composed of various Sands, several daughters of Martell bannermen, and a number of fellow fostered-out wards. It was their custom to roam about the palace like a pack of feral dogs, all laughter and chaos and riotous color, and then descend upon their destinations as gracefully and mildly as a flock of doves, the image of maidenly decorum as they gossiped and embroidered in their billowing gowns of muslin and sandsilk. Since they had welcomed Sango cheerfully into their number, she was forced into gracious compliance when they declared she would “perish of sunstroke in those Northern atrocities,” and insisted on having gowns made for her in their own fashion. For her part, Sango was more interested in having her own Dornish armor—she suspected the minimalist leather designs might suit her style of fighting better than the heavy hauberks she was used to. But her Dornish finery, though it displayed too much décolletage for her taste, was certainly less itchy and stifling than anything she had brought from the capital. Soon she was nearly indistinguishable from the larger group of ladies, though she tended to hover on the fringes of it.

So far, most of Sango’s time in Dorne had been spent brooding over the question of why her father had chosen to send her to _Dorne_ , of all places. House Taijiya prized honesty, respectability, and virtue—ideals which, it seemed to Sango, most Dornishmen considered foolish affectations. Had her father known there would be so many bastards about? It seemed as though every third person she met was a Sand—they were even more abundant than, well, _sand_. She’d never be able to keep them all straight.

On the fourth day it was decided that the ladies should venture out to the practice yard and the stables. One of the middle Sand Snakes was keen to practice jousting, one of the elder ones (and Sango) wanted to train with blades, and many of the younger, sillier girls were eager to observe the young men who would be doing the same. And these objectives were not necessarily at odds with each other, explained a dark, elegant Sand. For the young men might be observed even better from _up close_. She winked. Sango thought of all the times she had observed Prince Kuranousuke in the practice yard, all the times she had trained beside him, and wanted to kick something. Perhaps it might have been useful to have all these Sand Snakes around then, to tell her what she was doing to make him fall in love with her, and how to stop doing it. 

Just to be safe, she contrived to end up with the gruffest and least-interested of the young men in the yard as her sparring partner.Inuyasha was a younger, bastard son of House Taisho of Cloudspire. Rumor had it that he had been hastily legitimized while his father lay on his deathbed. No doubt his power-hungry elder brother had shipped him off to Dorne in the hope that he might make an advantageous marriage there, where attitudes about bastardy were somewhat more tolerant. No matter. His bastard status was nothing to Sango—all that mattered to her was that he made a good sparring partner.

If there was one thing that could make her feel better about everything, it was the weight of a sword in her hand. Dorne and all of its isolating strangeness melted away like a mirage as she flowed from one movement to the next. There was only the worn leather grip beneath her fingers, the swish of steel through the air. Familiar movements and muscle aches. Her focus as sharp as her blade—it was a profound relief to have something to focus on after so many days of idling. She remained in the deserted practice yard long after Inuyasha had excused himself and her giggling group of peers had allowed the midday heat to chase them back into the cool vault of the palace.

She wasn’t alone for long. Her consciousness had receded, relinquishing control to some subliminal network of nerves that piloted her body more effectively than her thinking mind ever could. It was this primal intuition that made her aware that she herself was now being _observed_ by a lone figure in her peripheral vision. Her exercise complete— _step, swing, twist_ —she sheathed her sword and pivoted to look at him in turn.

The thread of calm that had been humming through her snapped. She did not know him, but recognized him nevertheless as the shadowed stranger from atop the Winding Wall. Now, in the glare of day, he wasn’t nearly so menacing—and yet. There was something about him that made her glad of the sword she carried.

“You’re not a Sand Snake,” he said.

It wasn’t a question and so didn’t require an answer, but Sango understood it as a challenge all the same. “No,” she agreed.

“But you fight like one.” He had a strange accent—no trace of a Dornish lilt. Not Westerosi, she thought. Perhaps he came from one of the Free Cities.

“I don’t.”

“You’re right,” he conceded. “You’re more refined. You may be better than they are.”

Sango made no reply this time. It was fortunate that she was too pink from exertion to blush. Who was he to judge such things?

“And where does a highborn lady of Westeros learn such a skill, if not here?” His eyes—of a strange deep purple shade—kept glinting in a sly way that either disguised or laid bare his intentions. It was difficult to say which.

“From House Taijiya of Demonsbane,” she answered reluctantly.

“I have not heard of it. Tell me,” he took a few leisurely steps in her direction. “Are all the women of House Taijiya of Demonsbane like you?”

“At present, I am the only woman of my house,” she informed him.

“A pity,” was his low reply. The brazen _interest_ with which he appraised her made her angry. She was torn between not wanting him to look at her at all, and wishing she were clean, composed, and dressed as an elegant lady instead of perspiring and disheveled in her plain practice tunic.

The stranger held out a hand. “Miroku of Myr, at your service, Lady…?”

“Sango.” She took his hand, but kept her other hand on the pommel of her sword. He might easily have called her Lady Taijiya instead of fishing for her first name, she thought.

“Sango,” said Miroku of Myr, trying it out. “I like it. I believe I shall say it often.”

“There’s no need. It would better befit you to call me Lady Taijiya,” said Sango, sounding much haughtier than she had intended. The title felt strange and cumbersome on her own tongue.

Miroku of Myr grinned. His face was just a shade too handsome for the infuriating expression to be called a leer. “Ah, but Westerosi customs are not my customs,” he said, leaning in. He was nearly close enough to smell the salt drying on her skin.

Sango took a step back and immediately hated herself for it. Who was he to try and intimidate her? She glared up at him, for once grateful that she had never been able to school her face into hiding her emotions. Let it serve as a warning. If he came any nearer she’d knock him into the dust. She almost hoped he would try. An elbow to the throat would certainly cool his ardor, if that was what it was.

“Lady Sango!”

Miroku’s throat was spared by the arrival of the maid who dressed Sango’s hair in the mornings, a pleasant, chatty girl called Kagome whose family ran a spice stall in one of the bazaars. Her wide, curious eyes darted from Sango to Miroku, drinking in their odd tableau, the atmosphere of conflict welling up between them.

“I—apologies for the interruption, Lady Sango, but the other ladies wish to know if you will join them for tea.” Kagome managed to sound admirably as though nothing unusual were occurring.

Half of Sango was grateful for the interruption; the other half strangely disappointed. “I will join them presently if you will help me bathe and dress,” she told Kagome, trying to match the other girl’s casual tone. She was tempted to stalk off without another word to Miroku, but some combination of conscience and breeding would not allow it.

“Ser.” She bobbed a shallow curtsey.

But her icy leave-taking did nothing to extinguish the glint in his eyes as he inclined his dark head. “We shall meet again soon, my lady.”

 _My lady_. He had managed to imbue the mundane words Sango heard every day with an undercurrent of covetous intent. They echoed in her ears as she followed Kagome back to the palace. Miroku of Myr. She almost admired his boldness—almost.

 _Father wouldn’t like him_ , she thought. And then: _but Father isn’t here._

It was true. There was no one to thwart Miroku of Myr’s intentions but herself.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen my guys, save your breath and don't bother asking me whether this takes place in the book verse or the show verse, or pointing out all of the ways in which I've butchered Westeros and gotten canon wrong
> 
> ...or do, it's a free internet. I even have a [tumblr](https://boomerangst.tumblr.com/) for all your anonymous hate needs ;)


	2. a feast at sunspear

 

Sango hated feasts.

Well, perhaps that was unfair. She had enjoyed the modest feasts her father threw at Demonsbane when she was a child, before they had been summoned to the capital. But King’s Landing feasts were too loud and too boring at the same time, and once or twice a dance partner had tried to take liberties, forcing Sango to choose between enduring such insults to her person or retaliating and causing a scene. She had imagined Dornish feasts would be much the same.

They weren’t. This feast, give it its due, was by no means boring. So far there had been a performance from a troupe of acrobats, a fire eater had roasted meat on a stick using flames from his mouth, and a knife-throwing demonstration had taken place right in the middle of the hall. This last act had prompted a lively discussion about weapons among the lords and ladies at Sango’s table—far pleasanter and more interesting than any of the small talk she’d suffered through at King’s Landing. She had been just on the verge of deciding she no longer hated feasts when she’d looked up and locked eyes with Miroku of Myr for the third time in as many minutes and changed her mind.

Damn him! What was his problem? She might have been having a perfectly enjoyable evening if not for him. Every time he glanced her way it sent a strange, tickling current through her, and Sango hated him for it. The worst of it was that she couldn’t even ask him to leave her alone, because technically, he was already doing that. Not that she _wanted_ him to come talk to her, of course. He’d be insufferable if he found out she had asked her maid about him only a few hours ago.

She had made up her mind to inquire very casually while Kagome was dressing her hair for the feast—just an offhand remark would do, breezy and dispassionate. She had forgotten her own inability to be either thing. It was an unpleasant shock when the words that actually came out of her mouth were “Who exactly _is_ Miroku of Myr?”

Kagome’s eyes snapped to Sango’s in the mirror. Sango manifested a sudden deep interest in one of the little boxes on her dressing table.

“Well, milady, they say he’s one of the prince’s favorites, a companion who came with him from Essos,” said Kagome. Sango had already known that much. “Beyond that, there are half a hundred stories. Some say he’s a Red Priest of R’hllor, others insist he’s a sellsword from the Bright Banners. I’ve heard rumors that he saved the prince’s life, that he’s a pirate, that he was exiled for bedding the Sealord of Braavos’ favorite mistress…” Kagome had set down her comb in order to tick the rumors off one by one on her fingers. “But I’ve never spoken to him, my lady,” she concluded, returning her attention to Sango’s hair. “You must know him better than I do.”

“I don’t—I don’t know him at all,” insisted Sango, nearly dropping the box. “I was simply curious.”

Over Sango’s shoulder in the mirror, Kagome blinked. “As you say, milady.”

And now Sango was skulking in the shadow of a pillar at a feast she hated. She wasn’t hiding from Miroku, of course. She was just tired. And she didn’t want to inflict her sullen company on her tentative new friends and ruin everyone’s mood. It was easier to sink down on an out-of-the-way bench and let it all wash over her—sounds and lights, whirling shadows, the rise and fall of voices—like waves against stone. She longed to be back with Kohaku, and Kirara, and Septa Kaede. And her father, of course—but it felt different to think of him, left a bitter taste she didn’t wish to dwell on.

A group of laughing young men had drifted over to the other side of the pillar, already ruddy-cheeked from alcohol and exhilaration. Sango imagined how much easier her life would be if she were one of them—if she could live as she pleased, without being punished in constant little ways for things beyond her control. If she were a man, she wouldn’t even be here. She would be training for the tourney in the capital right now, if only she hadn’t been born—

“—Lady Sango,” said one of the male voices. Sango’s stomach gave a clumsy lurch, but no one invaded her hiding place. She let out a breath—they were only speaking _about_ her.

“Yeah, and so what?” replied a familiar voice—Inuyasha Taisho’s. “She’s a decent fighter.” Sango felt a sudden rush of affection for her sparring partner.

“You certainly spend a great deal of time together,” pressed the first man. “I heard you were seen outside her chambers the other day.”

 _He was?_ They did spend a lot of time sparring together, but Sango had only ever seen Inuyasha in the yard and at mealtimes.

“That was—who in seven hells told you that?” demanded Inuyasha. “Some idiot guards were bothering her maid, so I made them shut the fuck up and walked the girl to Lady Sango’s door. It had nothing to do with Sango.”

Sango chewed her lip, thinking. Kagome hadn’t mentioned any such encounter. Perhaps they weren’t as close as Sango had thought. And Inuyasha, gallantly coming to the rescue? It didn’t fit her image of him.

“Ah, so it’s the maid you’re after! Good lad! And how goes the chase?”

“I never said I was _after_ her!” spluttered Inuyasha.

“That bad, eh?” chuckled the other man. “Come now, Miroku”—Sango’s stomach gave another unwelcome jolt—“you must have some advice for the boy. They say you’ve more conquests to your name than Princess Nymeria!” There was a sound like someone being thumped on the back. Her own heart thumped against her ribs as a third voice chimed in:

“I’m afraid it’s disappointing advice. The way I see it, women are like battles: if they cannot be easily won, they should be avoided at all costs.”

The answering roar of laughter drowned out Sango’s enraged huff. She might have known Miroku of Myr’s response would set her teeth on edge.

“Oh yeah? Then why don’t you take your own damn advice and leave Lady Sango alone?” challenged Inuyasha. Where had he heard about Miroku’s futile overtures toward her? Could Kagome have said something to him? _What a disaster._

Miroku of Myr made a thoughtful noise. “I confess I don’t always follow my own advice. But to own the truth, I have no need to avoid the lady when she’s proven herself very adept at avoiding me.”

“Best give it up, then,” said another unfamiliar voice. “She’s a pretty enough maid, I grant you, but she’s the coldest fish in the Seven Kingdoms. You’ll never succeed in sullying a Taijiya’s precious _honor_.” He said the last word the way another person might have said “vomit” or “pustulant boils.”

“Dunno why you came here, Miroku!” bellowed the drunkest speaker yet. “Our women must seem like dull prigs after you’ve had half of Essos on your—” a hiccup and another roar of laughter cut him off.

“On the contrary,” was all Miroku said before the group began to disperse. Sango stayed where she was, fuming, all the more angry because she didn’t _want_ to be angry—or sulky, or ‘the coldest fish in the Seven Kingdoms.’ Bastards. She didn’t want to prove any of them _right_ , least of all that Miroku of Myr.

The chief source of all her frustration appeared around the pillar as suddenly if her thoughts had summoned him. Miroku didn’t seem surprised to see her—he was holding two cups of wine. “I’m sorry you heard that,” he said, offering her one.

“But not sorry you said it?” she challenged.

He had known she was listening. He had _known_ , and still said—well, mostly it was the other men who had said things. But Miroku had said that women were like battles. Sango considered his slyly handsome, unrepentant face and then the cup extended out to her, a peace offering. _So I’m a battle, am I?_ It would be so easy to show him a _real_ battle. She was tempted to dash the cup out of his hand and watch it stain the floor blood red as an opening salvo. But satisfying as the image was, Sango knew such an action would be childish, and she had the honor of House Taijiya to uphold. And anyway she was thirsty. She reached out and took the glass, careful not to let her fingers so much as brush against Miroku’s. He took this for tacit permission to sit beside her. She let him.

Well, now she had her wish of the other day. She was polished and perfumed, finely arrayed in a gown of trailing green organza with a plunging embroidered bodice, and he was looking at her—had been looking all evening. His irises were narrow blue-black bands as he focused on her.

“We foreigners ought to watch out for one another, don’t you think?” he observed.

 _Foreigners?_ It was on the tip of Sango’s tongue to bristle at that. She was no foreigner. She had drawn her first breath in Westeros—her father was Lord Commander of the Kingsguard! How dare a Myrish sellsword presume to say such things to her? _He_ might be a foreigner, but she was home.

Except that she so plainly wasn’t. The gulf between herself and the Dornishmen would never be greater than in this moment, in this room of whirling dancers and heady spice-scents. In this resplendent company she stood out, dull and gloomy, a cuckoo in a peacock’s nest. Westerosi or not, she was no less a stranger in a strange land than Miroku was.

If she were only a better courtier, a better _flirt_ , she would crush him with some calculated, scathing retort—something like, _and where did you come from, again?_

Instead, she said, “Watching me isn’t the same as watching _out_ for me, ser. And I don’t need anyone’s protection.”

“I daresay you don’t. But perhaps I need _your_ protection. And desire your company.” He was baiting her, like a bear in a pit. She took a slow sip of wine to give her mouth something to do other than snap at him.

He was still watching her when she checked out of the corner of her eye, but seemed at last to have sensed the precariousness of her mood and was looking less irritatingly confident. Good. Sango smoothed her skirts, readying a threadbare excuse to leave.

“Truly—I _am_ sorry for what I said,” protested Miroku before she could speak. Sincerity was a strange look on him. “I spoke without thinking. Flippancy is one of my worst flaws,” he added with a self-conscious grin, as if she was meant to find that endearing.

“I suppose…I suppose peevishness is one of mine,” admitted Sango in spite of herself. “But next time…perhaps next time, you might say something different in front of the others—even if it makes you unpopular,” she added more firmly.

Miroku mulled the idea over. “I suppose there is a first time for everything. I _did_ cross the Narrow Sea in search of new experiences,” he joked. “And I would not like you to think me a flattering coward.”

Sango rolled her eyes. “No one doubts your courage, ser,” she assured him, rising from the bench and setting her cup down. “If anything, you have far too much of _that_.”

He laughed, low and good-natured, and rose along with her. “Have I bored you so much, Lady Sango? Perhaps you’d prefer to dance.”

“No, thank you,” said Sango. “I think I’ll retire early.” She stepped cautiously out of the shadow of the pillar, ready to make a graceful escape.

“Then I shall see you to your chamber,” insisted Miroku of Myr, taking her arm so smoothly and courteously that it would have been churlish to refuse.

He accompanied her all the way through echoing halls and up several flights of winding stairs, past flickering torches and scuttling servants, including one guardsman who winked at them, so that Miroku had to physically restrain Sango from going after him and setting him straight.

By the time they reached the door to Sango’s chamber, Miroku of Myr had succeeded in distracting her. Employing all his considerable verbal dexterity, he’d managed to tease out most of the basic facts of her life—Demonsbane and King’s Landing, Kohaku and Kirara, how she had split her time growing up between combat training and more traditionally ladylike pursuits. In return, he offered hints about his life in Essos. Sango was surprised to find that he really had been trained as a Red Priest, after he’d been left on the steps of their temple as an infant.

“So you never knew your true family? How awful.” Sango couldn’t imagine such an upbringing. She felt suddenly spoiled.

Miroku shrugged. “It wasn’t so terrible. I was always well-treated, and the Myrish sect isn’t half so strict as some of the others. When I admitted I had never felt a true vocation, they sent me on my way cheerfully enough.”

“Where did you go?” asked Sango, curiosity getting the better of her.

He smiled. “I shall tell you tomorrow, if our paths happen to cross. We’re here,” he added before she could protest, gesturing at her door. “You said the third door on the left, didn’t you?”

Sango arched an eyebrow at him. “‘If our paths happen to cross?’”

“I have a feeling they will.” That teasing glint was back in his eyes. “Good night, Lady Sango.” He bent to kiss her hand. Sango had been on the receiving end of a thousand such kisses, but had never battled the urge to snatch her hand back as if it had been burned until now.

“I thought you said Westerosi customs were not your customs,” she reminded Miroku.

She struggled not to blush as his gaze traveled lazily up her body. _Shameless_. He met her eyes without even a trace of repentance, and somehow that contact was even worse.

“They could be,” he said, and then turned and strode back down the hall.

 

 


	3. a walk in the gardens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to Lali for beta-ing! 4 for you Lali you go Lali

 

  Kagome had been waiting in Sango's chambers when she arrived back, and so must have overheard Miroku. She was a model of dutiful decorum, though, and once again held her tongue. It was a vexing relief for Sango, who didn’t want to talk to anyone about Miroku but was simultaneously bursting to talk to _someone_ about him.

Sleep was elusive that night. She tossed fitfully until dawn, an eavesdropper on her own memories as she replayed her conversation with Miroku from Kagome’s imagined point of view. By the time the first sliver of sun peeked above the horizon, she was certain they had said nothing improper—it was only the latent _mood_ between the two of them that had hinted at some future impropriety. And perhaps Sango had imagined that. It had been late, and she’d been taken in by Miroku of Myr’s reputation, attributing thoughts and motives to him without any evidence. That was all.

(His near-promise that their paths would cross the next day echoed in her mind as she drifted off to sleep.)

By the time she awoke again, the sun was high in the sky, searing down in its singular Dornish way. It was too late to join the men in the practice yard—Inuyasha would have to partner with someone else today. Instead she dined in the solar with the elder Sand Snakes and their group, who seemed unaffected as ever by the stifling heat. She found them in the middle of a spirited discussion about whether it was possible to kiss a man (or woman) without liking him (or her.) From their arch, over-delicate pronunciations of the word _kiss_ , it was clear that they meant something else entirely. Sango couldn’t tell whether they were holding back out of respect (unlikely) or because they were teasing her (very likely), but either way it was exhausting. By the end of the meal she had drawn her own conclusion: that it was indeed _possible_ to kiss (or “kiss”) a man without liking him, but not at all _advisable_. For her part, she couldn’t understand the appeal and was determined not to think about the whole distasteful subject.

When she excused herself, there were two parcels waiting in her room. One was her new Dornish armor—or a variation of Dornish armor, with a woven leather breastplate instead of the scanty straps most of the Sand Snakes favored. Not that Sango’s version lacked for straps—there were several, crossing over each other in an X at the hollow of her throat and another between her shoulder blades. All in all it was a good compromise, with plenty of places to secret her various blades and poisons away. Sango carefully arranged it where she could see it from anywhere in the room before turning her attention to the second, smaller parcel.

It had come with a letter from her father, updating her on events in King’s Landing. Prince Kuranousuke had won the tourney, as expected. Kohaku’s training was progressing smoothly. He had had a raven from his castellan at Demonsbane assuring him that all was well at home.

_I hope you have found Dorne to your liking, and that your hosts continue to treat you well. I trust you will remember in all of your dealings that you are the only daughter of House Taijiya, and must behave accordingly. Safeguard your honor and apply yourself in the practice yard, and soon enough the day will come when I shall summon you back to the capital. Until then I remain_

_Your loving father_

There was nothing out of the ordinary in the letter, but Sango's throat tightened as she read it. She forced herself to set it down gently. If only it had come from Kohaku instead.

The attached parcel contained a thin bracelet and another note:

_This belonged to your mother. Let it serve as a reminder of who you are._

As if he hadn’t just reminded her in the letter. Sango sank onto the window seat and held the bracelet up to the light. It was of finely worked leather, interwoven with delicate silver loops. A small amber stone gleamed in the center. She was still holding it, equally reluctant to put it away and fasten it on, when the door opened.

“I apologize, milady.” Kagome stood on the threshold with an armful of fabric. “I came with fresh linens, but if you’d prefer to be alone—”

“No,” interrupted Sango. She cleared her throat. “You’re not intruding. Stay.” She motioned for Kagome to set the linens down and come sit beside her.

Kagome obeyed, her gaze traveling to the bracelet. “Is that yours? Should I help you with it?” She didn’t wait for an answer, but fastened it around Sango’s wrist in a few quick movements. “There. It’s pretty.”

Sango said nothing, only looked down at where the cool metal had already begun to pinch at the fine little hairs on her skin. 

Kagome’s expression clouded. “Is something wrong, Lady Sango?”

Sango shook her head. “It’s nothing. Kagome, would you mind…would you tell me of your family?”

Kagome did. She lived with her mother, brother, and grandfather, who ran a modest but profitable trade in spices and other goods. Her face lit up with fondness as she described each relative in turn, and then with pride as she told Sango of their two stalls, one in the largest bazaar and the other in the Shadow City.

“Might we—could you take me there now? I’ve never been to the Shadow City,” said Sango. The warmth in Kagome’s tone was achingly familiar, and she wanted to recapture it for herself, even vicariously.

“Now, my lady? It might be safer with an escort.” Kagome cast a dubious eye over Sango’s fine clothes.

“Nonsense,” said Sango. “I’ll bring my sword.”

 

* * *

 

The Shadow City was a hive of activity, even in the scorching hours of midday when there were scarcely any shadows to be found. Kagome’s family were delighted to see her, and nearly as delighted to meet Sango. Soon they were flooding her with questions about “the North” and urging her to sample every delicacy in the market. She could not possibly return to the palace without first trying stuffed dates and creamcakes, honeyed walnuts and spiced pears, and a delicious pastry made up of thin layers that melted on her tongue like sweet snowflakes. By the time she took her leave, she was all but bursting out of her gown, sides straining against the rose-colored sandsilk. She and Kagome laughed all the way back to the Winding Walls, enjoying the newfound closeness of their friendship. Sango was halfway to convincing her maid to drop all of the curtseys and “milady”-ing.

The stifling, arid morning had cooled into a brilliant blue-and-gold afternoon. A breeze picked up from the Summer Sea, ruffling their hair in cheerful gusts as they made their way through pools of shadow and slanting streaks of sunlight. Neither girl was in any hurry to go indoors, so they lingered in the vast palace gardens, finding a low wall in the shade of an olive tree to perch on while they grazed on the bag of sweets Kagome’s mother had pressed into her hands as they left.

“Kagome,” said Sango, looking down at where her hands fidgeted in her lap, “may I ask you something personal?”

“Of course,” said Kagome, curiosity edging into her voice.

“Have you ever kissed a man? You don’t have to answer,” assured Sango hurriedly.

But Kagome showed no trace of offense. “No,” she admitted, with a self-conscious little smile. “I haven’t kissed a woman, either.”

“Do you suppose… _would_ you kiss a man? A man you weren’t married to?”

A pause. “I might,” said Kagome, “if I liked him enough.”

“So then…you would be content to be someone’s paramour, instead of his wife?” Sango fretted with the links of her bracelet.

Kagome looked thoughtful. “Not exactly,” she said. “It would depend on the man, on what he was like, and how I felt about him. But I wouldn’t think it _wrong_ to become someone’s paramour,” she added firmly.

Sango nodded, eyes downcast to where the hard knot of leather pressed against the faint veins of her wrist. “Back home…” she hesitated. “Back home everyone sets much store by reputation. There is great regard for a woman’s honor, especially if she is highborn. But this morning, some of the other ladies were saying…” she bit her lip, not wishing to tell tales on anyone. That wasn’t what she meant to say.

Kagome seemed to understand anyway. “I’ve heard it’s different in the north,” she said gently, and Sango had to hold back a smile at hearing her home described as _the_ _north_ again. “And mayhaps it’s only pride in my home, but I think the Dornish way is better. Are the ladies where you come from happier than the ladies here? Does their honor bring them happiness?”

Sango hardly needed to consider her answer. “No.” 

Kagome nodded. “Then our way must be better. The ladies here are always merry. I should know—it makes me happy even to be around them.”

Sango nodded too. “I’m glad.” _I am the only one who cannot seem to find happiness here. But was I truly happy back home?_

“The customs here in Dorne must seem odd to you,” said Kagome.

“No,” insisted Sango. “Perhaps… _new_ , but not _so_ odd. I suppose it’s only natural, if you find yourself drawn to a man—that is, a man of good character—to wish…and then perhaps to choose…” Seven hells, what was she saying? “Not—not that I know such a man,” she amended swiftly.

“Me neither,” Kagome hastened to agree. “But yes. It’s only natural, to want to be with the person you like.” She avoided Sango’s gaze until Sango itched to know who she was thinking about. 

One possibility occurred to her. “Among the men I do know,” she hazarded, straining to sound casual, “I think, for example, Ser Inuyasha’s character is good.”

Kagome’s head snapped up. “You do?”

Sango nodded fervently. “Oh, yes. He may forget his courtesies now and then, but he’s been a loyal friend to me,” she said, not missing the way Kagome relaxed at the word ‘friend.’ “It’s a shame so many highborn ladies dismiss him because he’s a bastard and a younger son,” Sango continued. 

“A shame,” agreed Kagome, her face slightly pinker than usual. “He…seems like a kind person to me.”

“Very kind,” said Sango, though that was hardly the first adjective she would have chosen to describe Inuyasha. “Any lady—I mean, any woman—would be lucky to have his affection,” she pronounced, carefully diplomatic.

The breeze picked up as they lapsed into a strangely charged silence. Kagome was the one to break it by clearing her throat. “I myself,” she began hesitantly, “don’t get many chances to speak to lords, but…I’ve heard the prince’s friend, the one called Miroku of Myr, is also very kind.”

Sango scrutinized her friend’s expression to see whether Kagome was teasing her, but she was all sincerity. Sango could only choke out a noncommittal hum.

It failed to mollify Kagome. “I believe his character is very good, too,” she persisted. “And that any woman would be lucky to have _his_ affection.”

_And no doubt a great many of them_ have _been so lucky,_ thought Sango sourly. How could any person of good character have such a reputation as Miroku of Myr’s? Good character, indeed! His own behavior toward her proved precisely the opposite.

She hummed again even more vaguely, trying to hide her scowl. “Shall we go inside? It’s growing hot.” It wasn’t at all hot, but Sango could feel herself flushing. She fanned at her neck ineffectively.

“Of course,” agreed Kagome, practically leaping down from the wall in sudden eagerness.

They retreated along one of the peristyle walks in silence. Unease stirred in the pit of Sango’s belly at leaving their conversation in such a place. She hadn’t meant to reveal so much of herself.

“Um, Kagome,” she began as they passed into the dappled light of another walled garden, “perhaps it would be best if we didn’t speak of—”

_Miroku?_

For she had just come around a bend and nearly crashed into him. 

Sango’s heart tumbled over itself as he reached out to steady her. Seven _hells_ , his timing was terrible. He was looking at her again, and she couldn’t help but be struck anew by the strange color of his eyes and the familiar, too-bold way they fixed on her. They made her feel _wanted_ even as she wanted to turn and flee.

“A very fine afternoon, Lady Sango. And here I was just thinking that the only thing to make it finer would be seeing your lovely face,” Miroku greeted. Sango said nothing, courtesies all but forgotten as she tried to smother her silent panic. She wished she’d had some _warning_. 

Miroku was not to be deterred by a mere silence. “I don’t believe I’ve met your charming friend,” he said, nodding toward Kagome.

“Oh—this is Kagome. Kagome, this is Miroku of Myr,” said Sango, searching desperately for some way to intimate to her friend that she was _not_ to mention to Miroku that they had just been speaking of him.

But Kagome’s polite curtsey betrayed nothing. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, ser. Oh! Hello,” she said.

Sango followed her gaze to where a small, dirty face was peering around Miroku’s elbow. It belonged to a scrawny, ginger-haired child.

“And who’s this?” asked Kagome, highborn company forgotten as she sank down to examine the boy. He stared back at her, unflinching.

“I’ve been making some new friends of my own,” said Miroku. “This one tried to pick my pocket in the Shadow City.” The child’s green eyes darted warily back and forth, as if expecting a reproach. “He says he has no parents, and he’s hungry,” continued Miroku, “so I’m taking him to the kitchens. After that, I thought I’d speak with the prince about finding him a place in the Water Gardens. There must be someone there in need of a cupbearer.”

“That’s a wonderful idea!” chirped Kagome, already enamored with the skinny urchin. No doubt he reminded her of the little brother Sango had just met. “What’s your name?” she asked him.

“Shippou,” said the boy. His shaggy fringe of hair hung down into his eyes the same way Kohaku’s did. 

Sango stretched up to pluck a ripe blood orange from a tree beside the path. “Here,” she said, offering it to Shippou. “To tide you over until you reach the kitchens.”

Shippou took the orange and bit into it without regard for the peel, wincing at its bitterness. Kagome giggled. “Not like that, silly,” she reached out. “You have to peel it first. Here, I’ll show you.”

Miroku drifted away to give them space. His drift happened to bring him closer to Sango. “I told you our paths would cross today,” he said, voice low. 

“You did,” agreed Sango. She checked his position with a brief sideways glance and then focused firmly on Shippou and Kagome.

But Miroku was not to be ignored. “I must confess I hadn’t thought to find you here,” he admitted. “Do you often walk in the gardens?”

An innocent enough question, from any lips but his. “No,” said Sango, wrapping her fingers around the hilt of the sword at her hip. “We’ve just come from the Shadow City.”

“Have you?” He sounded impressed. She could not resist turning to look—and there he was, appraising her with that sly quirk at the corner of his mouth. “You are a dangerous woman,” he murmured.

Privately, Sango agreed. Right now in his presence she was more conscious than ever of being a woman, and she felt very dangerous—to herself. Was it a good or bad thing to be dangerous, she wondered?

“Kagome”—Miroku’s voice was abrupt as he turned away—“May I call you Kagome?”

Kagome rose to her feet, curious at being addressed. “Of course, ser.”

“Would you mind escorting Shippou to the kitchens? I suspect he’ll be far more at ease in your company than in mine.”

“Of course!” agreed Kagome. She took the child’s hand, still sticky with dark orange juice, and barely paused to bid Sango a cheerful goodbye before slipping away, apparently without a thought for the precarious position in which she left her friend.

Miroku had contrived it this way, of course. Sango’s stomach churned with strange anticipatory currents as Kagome’s voice receded into the distance, leaving only the sounds of wind and water and the swish of her own hem against the paving stones. Before he could say anything she chose a neat little path at random and set off like a woman with a purpose, a woman who didn't care whether Miroku followed or not.

He did, of course.

“I believe I promised you a story,” he reminded her.

“So you did.” Sango folded her hands, an odd posture for walking. She was beginning to dislike the picture she presented, of a stiff, prim girl stalking away. Her steps slowed. What harm could there be in hearing the rest of his story? 

So she listened as he told her of days spent wandering the streets of Myr and then Lys, subsisting on whatever coin he could charm or swindle out of strangers until the day he ran afoul of a sellsword and ended up as an unwilling squire for the Bright Banners. But this turn of events was not so terrible—he traded his labor for three meals a day and a free (if compulsory) education in violence.

While the incidents of his life formed an interesting tale, Sango found that what she mostly wanted to know was how he _felt_ about it all. Of this he betrayed not a hint—it was extraordinary, his ability to detach from his own life. Frustrating and enviable.

_I could always_ ask _how he feels._ But she dismissed the thought immediately. What would she say, anyway? (What if she didn’t like his answers?)

They passed through an archway into another garden, bigger than the last, with great, looming hedges of jasmine. A fountain burbled somewhere out of sight, underscoring Miroku’s measured voice. The path narrowed and Sango pulled ahead, increasing the distance between them.

A loud cry sounded from somewhere close by, sharp and mournful. Sango nearly jumped as a great, rustling thing burst from the cover of the hedge, hurtling across her path in a whirlwind of color. A peacock. She had never heard one call before. Its cry had been human enough to unnerve, animal enough to frighten. 

“Don’t laugh,” she ordered, hand pressed to her chest as she turned back to check on Miroku.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he promised, grinning from ear to ear as they emerged into the central fountain courtyard. “But you mustn’t let him startle you. He’s off to court a lady friend of his.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s their mating season. There must be a peahen somewhere about. He’ll be desperate to impress her with that great, vibrant tail.” He started down the left path, and Sango followed him. 

“But his is an arduous struggle,” added Miroku, turning around. He was keeping his promise not to laugh, but mirth flickered in his eyes as he added, “I hear this peahen is notoriously particular. He may have to pull out all the stops to win her affection.”

Something in his tone told her he no longer spoke of the birds. If this was what passed for human flirting, Sango wasn’t impressed. “Well, he’s wasting his time,” she insisted. “She won’t have him.” 

Miroku opened his mouth, no doubt to say something else clever and flattering, but she cut him off. “And why should he want her, anyway? She’s a dull thing. Not like him.” Even to her own ears she sounded childish. She didn’t care. She stopped, crossed her arms over her middle.

Miroku touched her elbow, turned her gently around. “You underrate her,” he said, pointing back the way they had come, at the fountain, and Sango realized with a start that there was a great bird perched there. Every inch of the peahen’s plumage was the same bone-white as the lip of the fountain. Her crested head was tilted at a quizzical angle as she watched them with one black eye. 

“In my opinion, she’s far more impressive than the male,” Miroku murmured. “See her eyes, the way she holds her head? She doesn’t need a great, gaudy tail to be striking.” Sango had to admit there was some truth to that. She took a slow step closer, admiring the gentle fall of white feathers. Miroku stepped with her, the peahen’s eyes following their movement. Her perfect ceramic stillness was the pure opposite of the male’s haughty posturing.

“But if that’s so,” said Sango, “then why did the male walk right past her? He didn’t even notice her,” she pointed out, softly so as not to spook the animal.

She felt Miroku nod. “He’s a vain, lumbering fool. Why, he can hardly fly under the weight of that tail. She is not so encumbered. She is grace itself.”

Sango took another step, and another. Too close. The great bird exploded into motion, launching herself from the edge of the fountain in a magnificent sweep as if to prove Miroku’s point. One powerful beat of her white wings stirred the air, carried her over their heads. She glided to alight atop the arch they had just come through.

“That must be why she makes the decisions,” said Sango.

“Indeed,” said Miroku, right into her ear. Sango whirled around, nearly started and took flight herself. He was so close—she could see her own stark white reflection in the black mirrors of his pupils.

She didn't move.

“Just imagine,” said Miroku, his voice as low and quiet as if he were still trying not to frighten the bird, “when he does finally behold her. He’ll think the moon has fallen from the sky,” he said. Then his hands were on Sango’s arms. He kissed her.

It felt like a scene from someone else’s life: someone else amid the sea of rippling color, someone else breathing in the balmy scent of jasmine and blood oranges, someone else being kissed beneath the milky blue afternoon sky. Only the feel of him grounded her, reminded her she was present—his hands against _her_ waist, his lips against _her_ lips. She kissed him back, a test, to see if she was still herself. She could feel her convictions refracting like sunlight through the spray of the fountain—curving and distorting into something new and brilliant, transformed from their contact with the shining prism of him.

Against his shoulder the amber bracelet dug into her skin.

_Safeguard your honor_.

_Does their honor bring them happiness?_

Miroku’s eyes were closed when at last they pulled apart. Thin golden lines of light wavered across his face, reflected from the surface of the fountain.

“What are you doing?” asked Sango. She had no experience to go on, but she knew enough to know that this was not how kissing generally proceeded.

“I’m awaiting your slap,” he explained.

Sango said nothing. Her hands stayed by her sides. So he had expected pain, but stolen a kiss anyway, prepared to face her wrath. Interesting.

When no slap came Miroku opened his eyes, blinked them. “Is this truly happening?”

She was the one to kiss him this time, faster and firmer than before. When she pulled away to catch her breath, her chest rose and fell against his. “You tell me.”

“But…you don’t trust me.”

“Mmm,” she agreed. Her hands wanted to trace his biceps, so she let them.

“You don’t even like me.”

Sango thought of the Sand Snakes’ conversation that morning. “I don’t have to like you to kiss you,” she said, pulling him down again. It was true, but it wasn’t the whole truth. Miroku of Myr didn’t need to know she liked him—he was far too conceited already.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter brought to you by kagsan vibes and Pet the Dog moments


	4. a dalliance in the palace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this chapter was initially supposed to end somewhere very different but it was getting WAY too long and katie flattered me a lot in the comments so here it is. it has been over-edited to the point where I can no longer tell if it's good so lmk what you think in the comments if you please
> 
> tw for brief, joke-y references to GoT-canon-typical incest

The shed was empty of everything but rusty garden tools.

There was an answering hollowness in Sango’s chest, so light and fluttery it was hard to breathe around it. She found a barrel propped against the wall to perch atop while she waited, drawing her knees up and resting her head on them like a child. With no more productive task to distract her, she soon drifted off inside herself to brood over a conversation from dinner.

The door banged firmly shut behind Miroku, loud enough to interrupt her thoughts. He must have been in a good mood—he swept over and kissed her, deep and warm and without preamble, until her limbs unfurled like ferns from the ball they had been clenched in.

“My apologies for keeping you waiting,” he said when they drew apart. “I assure you it wasn’t out of negligence, for I have been curious all evening about what the prince said to you at dinner.”

“Why didn’t you ask him?” wondered Sango.

“I would much rather hear it from your lips,” insisted Miroku, tracing them lightly.

“There’s to be a knighthood ceremony,” she told him, the corner of her mouth twitching as fondness warred with irritation.

His fingers moved to push her hair back, baring her neck. “So I heard. That particular announcement was quite public.”

“The prince will preside over the ceremony.”

“So he said in the announcement.” He tilted her chin up, narrowed his eyes at her. “Are you teasing me, Lady Sango?”

“Of course not.” She swatted his hand away, crossed her arms over her middle. “Inuyasha is to be knighted.”

“I had been led to understand as much,” said Miroku more cautiously.

“Well, he offered to knight me as well. The prince, that is. He believes I’m ready. That’s what he said at dinner.”

Miroku drew away, the better to appraise her. “That is considered a great honor here, is it not?” She wondered what in her expression made him speak so gingerly.

She looked down at her feet, swinging one of them so that her heel thudded against the barrel. “I turned him down.”

“If I might ask…why? Don’t you want to become a knight? You certainly have the skill,” said Miroku.

Sango didn’t know how to explain it to him. She twisted her hands in her lap. “I want to. Of course I do. But I always…when I was small and I imagined becoming a knight, it was always my father who knighted me. He’s a knight himself, so he can do it.”

“And you’d rather wait for him.” Miroku sounded thoughtful.

Sango nodded. “Yes. When he summons me back to the capital.”

“Back to the capital,” Miroku repeated. Something flitted across his face too fast for her to identify. “And when will that be?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” He raised an eyebrow. “I’ve told you the story of how I came to Dorne,” he said slowly, stepping back into her circle of space, “but I’ve never asked for your story. Forgive me for this terrible oversight, Sango.” He took her hands. “Why did you leave King’s Landing?”

Slowly, haltingly, Sango explained. Without intending to, she found herself downplaying the extent of Prince Kuranousuke’s _attachment_ , as her father had called it. Not for Miroku’s benefit, of course—she was simply respecting Kuranousuke’s privacy.

Miroku, for his part, seemed almost as though he could guess at what she was leaving out. If he did, he kept those suspicions to himself, only venturing to ask about Westerosi tournament traditions, like the significance of the Queen of Love and Beauty. Sango provided him with a few historical examples of how spectacularly wrong things could go if someone, especially a prince, chose the wrong woman.

“Not—not that I’m comparing myself to any of them,” she qualified. “Prince Kuranousuke and I—it wasn’t anything serious. And he’s an honorable man. He wouldn’t have abducted me.”

“I should hope not, for his sake,” chuckled Miroku. He pressed a quick kiss to Sango’s jaw. “I pity the fool who tries to abduct _you_.”

The words made her feel oddly buoyant. She was used to men’s respect, but it was always hard-won or grudging and mostly for the sake of her father’s position, her noble bloodline. She was not used to being so casually praised, as though it cost Miroku nothing to acknowledge her strength. She wondered if he was sincere, or whether he had flattered all of his previous paramours the same way. _I must be careful around him_ , she thought. _Too much time spent in his company will make me conceited_. But even as she resolved to be firm, to put some distance between them, her traitorous arms reached up to twine around his neck, and her traitorous lips met his and parted, as if to taste and savor and swallow his words like honey.

It was much more enjoyable than the conversation they’d abandoned—so easy to trade speech for sensation, like the slide of Miroku’s hair beneath her fingers, the warmth of his tongue as it slipped into her mouth, teasing. His hand found its way to her knee and then higher, taking the layers of her gown with it. The natural thing to do then was to let her leg hitch around his waist, so Sango did, aware that the action brought him closer to her, and both of them closer to true danger. It was suddenly airless in the tight confines of the shed. Sango broke the kiss before she could grow dizzy.

Miroku hardly seemed to notice the lack of air. “So your father sent you away to protect your honor,” he murmured against the curve where her neck met her shoulder. “I wonder. What would he say”—he kissed lower—“if he could see you now?”

The idea should have made Sango recoil—should have brought her to her senses—but instead it thrilled. Miroku’s wicked laugh was warm on her skin as a frisson of excitement skittered down her spine.

What _would_ her father say if he could see his only daughter, a supposed paragon of virtue, brought up with the utmost care, like _this_? How would he react to find her pressed against the wall, skirts rucked up about her thighs, choking back a moan while the lips of a disreputable Myrish priest-turned-sellsword ravaged her throat?

“He would have…your head…before you could say…‘please don’t behead me, Lord Taijiya,’” she managed.

“I’ll gladly surrender my head in exchange for yours,” said Miroku, lips traveling back up.

It took Sango’s addled brain a moment to realize he was talking about her _maiden_ head. Her breathless laugh made her press harder against the hands at her sides, bracketing her ribcage. She wrinkled her nose. “How morbid. You’ve been listening to that song about the Dornishman’s wife again,” she accused.

Miroku didn’t deny it. “Fair as the sun…” He kissed her mouth, drawing it out until she sighed against his lips, “And warmer than spring,” he pronounced when they broke apart.

Sango laughed again. “I thought I was the coldest fish in the Seven Kingdoms,” she reminded him, surprised at how little the insult bothered her now.

He ran a finger along the neckline of her bodice, slowly, as though just _daring_ her to slap his hand away. “I know a great many fish who would beg to differ,” he promised.

Instead of slapping it, Sango caught his hand in hers before it could stray into more dangerous territory. She held his gaze and brought it to her lips, pressed a kiss to his knuckles, watched the way his larynx bobbed up and down in response. Strange, the way such a simple gesture felt more intimate than anything they had just been doing. It was suddenly too disconcerting to look at him. She tried to drop his hand along with her gaze, but his fingers tightened in hers. Heat rose in her face.

“Well,” —she cleared her throat—“well, I suppose it is ironic to be called a cold fish when House Taijiya’s sigil is a firecat.”

Miroku didn’t release her hand, but loosened his grip until it was light as his voice. “Is it? I didn’t think firecats were found on this continent.”

“They aren’t, usually,” Sango explained. “My father says our ancestors must have come from Essos. Perhaps you and I are related.”

Miroku groaned. “Don’t say that. You’ll turn me into a Lannister.”

“Or a Targaryen.” She giggled.

“No, thank you. Really, ‘Fire and Blood?’ I abhor such gratuitous violence.” It felt safe to look at his face again, so she did, a little amused by the distaste there.

“Most house words are violent,” she pointed out.

“Indeed. What are yours?”

“‘Strength in Life.’”

Miroku tapped his chin. “I like that. Not so violent.”

“Do you think so? What else is strength for?”

He looked at her in that strange, uncomfortable way again, with warmth instead of heat. “There’s more than one kind of strength, Sango.”

 

* * *

 

Now that Sango had the proper armor for this weather, she and Inuyasha stayed in the practice yard longer, pushed each other harder. She was always sore by midday, but it was a good kind of sore.

One sweltering afternoon she arrived back in her chamber to find Kagome emptying a bucket of water into an ornately painted tub.

“What’s this?” she teased, already unfastening her arm guards. “Did I smell so awful yesterday that you thought you’d better have a bath ready today?”

Kagome laughed. “Not at all. We traded for some new scent oils at the stall and I haven’t had the time to test them out myself yet, so…”

Sango set her arm guards on the table. “So it _is_ that I smell.” She crossed the room to dip a hand into the water and drew it out again in surprise. “It’s cool,” she observed.

“Oh, yes, well,” said Kagome, shifting her weight, “Inuyasha—I mean, Ser Inuyasha says it gets so hot in the practice yard that he dunks his head in the horse trough”—she suppressed a giggle—“so I thought mayhaps you’d prefer it cool. But I can fetch hot water if you wish,” she added, drizzling a bottle of what Sango assumed was the scent oil into the water. The mingled aromas of jasmine and dragon’s blood rose from the tub, sweet and piquant and inviting.

“Oh, no—cool is perfect,” Sango hurried to assure Kagome as she finished stripping down. She wrinkled her nose. “And Inuyasha _does_ dunk his head in the horse trough. He did it today. Men are disgusting,” she concluded as she climbed into the bath.

Still grinning at the image of Inuyasha’s attempts to stay cool, Kagome handed her a coarse, waxy bar of soap.

“You should come and watch us in the yard sometime, Kagome,” suggested Sango as she scrubbed. “The covered gallery provides plenty of shade.”

“I couldn’t,” protested Kagome, coming to kneel beside the tub. “The covered gallery is for highborn lords and ladies.”

Sango shrugged, causing the soap to slip out of her hand with a splash. “You could always say I asked you to attend me,” she offered. And then, seeing the hesitance on Kagome’s face: “I’m sure Inuyasha would make a much better showing if _you_ were watching.”

Kagome’s cheeks darkened. She rested an arm on the edge of the tub. “Who comes to the covered gallery?” she asked, an arch lilt in her voice that hadn’t been there before. “Does _Miroku of Myr_ watch you spar?”

Now it was Sango’s turn to color. She took longer than was necessary to rummage around for the lost bar of soap. “Many people watch from the gallery,” she said primly when at last she straightened. “So I suppose he _might_ , on _occasion_ , be among them.”

She and Kagome regarded each other. The silence between them stretched, growing less and less awkward as they sized each other up. Kagome’s mouth twitched once, twice, and then they were both laughing, a shared sound that crescendoed into some very unladylike snorts which set them off a second time. They laughed until Sango’s face hurt and her lungs protested.

“I’m glad things are going well for you,” she ventured when they had caught their breath.

“And I’m glad things are going well for you,” countered Kagome.

_Going well. If you can call it that._

“Will you be about this evening?”

Sango understood what Kagome was truly asking. “No,” she admitted, allowing herself to smile as she imagined the shadowy confines of the garden shed. “So if you’d like to make your own plans…”

Kagome nodded. “Mayhaps I will.”

They shared a grin of exultant conspiracy.

 

* * *

  

Maiden’s Day dawned gray and muted, with scarcely enough light filtering through the window to rouse Sango from her boneless deep sleep. It was the first overcast day since she had come to Dorne, and she would have much preferred to spend it hacking away at Inuyasha with a practice sword, taking advantage of the cooler weather. It was with ill grace that she allowed Kagome to fasten her into a gown and send her off to join the ladies for prayers in the sept.

There was something _not right_ about kneeling before the great fresco of the Maiden, in her beatific humility, and presuming to ask for the goddess’ blessing when Sango knew she would be meeting up with Miroku to do distinctly un-maidenly things later. Never mind that her honor was still, at present, intact—she felt like a fake, a liar. _I’m sorry_ , she told the serene, painted face. The Maiden’s flowing robes where the same pure white as the feathers of the great peahen that lived in Sunspear’s gardens. _I don’t know what I’m doing, and I know I have to give him up, but not yet. Please, not yet._

That evening in the secluded darkness of the garden shed it was like a flame of defiance had been kindled in her chest, and she kissed Miroku twice as hard, felt his hands burning against her twice as hot.

They had begun, very innocently, to spend more time together in public. As far as anyone knew they were friendly acquaintances, two courtiers playing the game of idle flirtation. Of course, no one would bat an eye if Miroku took a lover, but if anyone suspected the way Sango felt about him—that even the most casual touches went straight to her head like Dornish strongwine, that the glint of an earring or the sound of a Myrish accent was enough to make her breath catch—it would mean trouble. But it was impossible not to flirt with disaster when _disaster_ was such a seductive blend of roguish charm and genteel respect.

Of course, it wasn’t as though they were constantly in each other’s company. Far from it. Sometimes, usually at Sango’s paranoid insistence, they went days at a time without seeing each other.

After one such instance, when three days had passed without a rendezvous in the garden shed, Sango caught sight of Miroku by the entrance to the kitchens. He was leaning against the wall, chatting with a pretty friend of Kagome’s, a maid whose name Sango could never quite recall—Shima. That was it.

Something prickly twisted in Sango’s stomach. The air felt coarse and gritty in her lungs. Shima smiled at something Miroku had said, leaned ever so slightly closer.

What was Sango doing, standing there like a fool, letting such ugly emotions choke their way up her throat? She had no claim on Miroku’s time, no right to poke her nose into his private affairs.

She whirled around and strode off at a faster than necessary pace.

 

* * *

  

That evening, she found herself trailing behind some of the other courtiers, who had invented a drinking game that involved touring all of Sunspear’s old works of art. She was just on the verge of making some excuse to retire when an arm shot out and tugged her into the nearest alcove.

For a moment instinct took over, and she only just managed to keep from lashing out to neutralize her would-be attacker when she saw who he was. “Miroku, what are you—”

She was cut off by a kiss that seared all the way down to her toes. This was madness. Anyone might find them—they were within earshot of the others, scarcely hidden from view.

“What are you doing?” she hissed when they broke apart.

“You _are_ angry with me,” he said, as though she had confirmed his suspicions. So he had noticed, then, the way she’d been avoiding him all afternoon.

“I’m not,” insisted Sango, refusing to look higher than his shoulder.

“You are,” he repeated. “But I can’t mend my behavior if you won’t tell me what I’ve done to upset you. At least grant me the courtesy of an explanation.”

Damn him. He knew she wouldn’t be able to keep quiet if it meant being accused of rudeness.

“It’s nothing,” said Sango, tossing her head in her best imitation of carelessness. “I just…saw you this afternoon. Talking to Shima.”

She was horrified at herself. She hadn’t meant to sound so childish, so _jealous_.

She felt Miroku’s finger beneath her chin. “You did, did you?” she could hear the smile in his voice, infuriating enough to break her resolve and cause her to look up at him. “What do you think we spoke of?” he challenged.

“I don’t care,” said Sango, wishing with all her being that it were true.

Miroku ignored her peevishness. “You,” he told her.

This was too much of a non-sequitur to ignore. “ _Me_?”

“She asked me what, in my opinion, was the most beautiful sight in Westeros.”

“Liar.”

“Very well—she asked me whether I thought the prince would be much longer, so the kitchen staff might know when to have his meal ready, and I told her he was on his way.” He regarded Sango slyly before adding, as an afterthought, “Of course, Shima’s a good-looking girl. Under ordinary circumstances, your assumptions about my relationship with her might be correct.”

 _Ordinary circumstances?_ Sango resisted the faint urge to strangle him.

He let out a sigh that was almost offensive in its theatricality. “But for the last several weeks, there is only one woman I have been interested in, and I am afraid she so overflows my thoughts that there is room for no other.” His words were flattering as ever, but the sincerity in his eyes took Sango by surprise. Seven hells—she _believed_ him. When had she begun to trust his word?

Miroku was still watching her, a hint of nervousness in his manner now. “Are you satisfied?”

Sango was, but before she could say so a sudden delirium of boldness seized her.

“Not yet,” she said, and kissed him.

After a moment Miroku pulled away, confused at how easily he had made it back into her good graces. He examined her face with a skeptical eye. “Are you drunk?”

“No,” she admitted, though the lingering taste of that kiss, the warmth of his proximity, were having the same effect. Her head was already reeling. If he touched her again she might lose her ability to care about being caught.

“Good,” he pronounced. And then, lower: “I missed you.”

He took her wrist and tugged her through the gauzy curtain that separated indoors from outdoors, out onto the peristyle walk overlooking one of the inner courtyards. It was deserted, thank the Seven.

He leaned in—for another kiss, she thought, pathetic heart quickening in her chest—and then stopped to hover tantalizingly close, his forehead resting against hers.

“My apologies for taking such a risk,” he murmured. “I’m afraid I am a weak-willed man, Lady Sango, and you”—he tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, letting his hand linger by her neck—“are irresistible.”

“That’s a dangerous line of reasoning,” said Sango coolly, drawing away despite the way her instincts clamored for her to do the opposite.

“You’re right, of course,” admitted Miroku with a lopsided grin. He let his hand fall. “Very well. You _are_ resistible—I simply can’t imagine wanting to resist you.”

He must have gathered from her expression that this was hardly a more satisfactory answer, because he let out a short laugh before leaning in to steal another kiss, and then another.

Once again it was as though something had altered between them. There was a newfound possessiveness in the way she held him, in the way he breathed her in. This time when his hand found its way to her breast Sango made no move to remove it, only pressed against him until a low, sharp sound tore from the back of his throat. In the end he was the one to capitulate, hands sliding around to pull her closer.

They were still for a moment. Sango’s bodice and sleeve had been yanked down on one side. She could feel the air raising gooseflesh on her bare spine, Miroku’s breath tickling her shoulder. She exhaled into the crook of his neck, focusing on the warmth of his hand at the small of her back and wondering if he’d ever been like this with any of his other conquests: _still_. Just together, just _being_.

 _You’re not a conquest_ , she told herself. _You haven’t actually fucked him. Yet._ She wanted it, though. She was so greedy. Her mind wanted to bind him to her forever and her soul wanted quiet moments like this and her body wanted to pull him close and let him fuck her until she forgot her own name.

In the end, Miroku was the one to pull away, though it seemed to cost him a great deal. A chill night breeze rushed in to fill the space between them. “I’ll find you tomorrow,” he promised as he slipped inside to rejoin the party.

When he was gone Sango sank inelegantly to the ground. Her heart was still thumping along at a gallop. She was going to need a moment.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter brought to you by blue balls


End file.
